


Damage

by roqueamadi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Slow by my standards anyway...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 01:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13494358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roqueamadi/pseuds/roqueamadi
Summary: Post-canon. Bronn is badly injured in a skirmish with the Night King. Jaime commands the small holdfast where soldiers are sent for rehabilitation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [sarcasm_for_free](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasm_for_free/pseuds/sarcasm_for_free) for helping me fight with this story :)

The Night King had a particular way of getting information out of people.

Sometimes, survivors would return from a battlefield where the Night King had walked, and they weren’t wights—they were still alive—but they were no longer sane either. Some were so mad it was a mercy to kill them.

So when Jaime stepped into the room to find Bronn unconscious and Sam, the maester (or almost-maester) examining an icy blue mark on the back of his shoulder, he knew what it meant.

He took another step towards the end of the bed and put his left hand on the bedpost to steady himself.

“Is that where…”

“That’s the Night King’s touch,” Sam said, glancing over at Jaime.

“Can you treat it?” Jaime asked, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears.

“I can try,” Sam said gently, “but he has already been unconscious a long time… It’s not a good sign, Ser Jaime. He may never wake, and even if he does, he may not have… retained his wits. And he will likely never swing a sword again.”

Jaime was saved from having to respond to this when the door opened and Sam's assistant, Gilly, entered, carrying a pot of something that smelled strongly acidic. She passed it to Sam and smiled gently at Jaime.

“Is he your friend?” she asked him directly, forgoing all formalities, as usual (not that Jaime cared).

“Yes,” he replied hoarsely. Sam smeared the thick unguent over the blue mark. Jaime breathed through his mouth as the smell wafted over, watching as Sam covered the edges of the blue tinge on Bronn’s skin. Then he rolled him over onto his back and poured several different concoctions down Bronn’s throat, holding his nose to make him swallow.

“That’s all I can do, I'm afraid,” Sam said, and started to pack up his things.

Gilly turned to Jaime again. “What’s his name?”

“Bronn,” Jaime said, finding it rather difficult to get the word out.

“Will you sit with Bronn awhile?” Gilly asked gently. “If he’s going to wake at all, it’ll be soon.”

Jaime nodded. “I’ll stay,” he said thickly.

“I have other patients to attend, Commander,” Sam said apologetically, and bustled out.

Gilly remained long enough to remove Bronn’s boots and place them on the floor. “Sam has healed the touch before. I’ve seen it,” she said, as Jaime sank into the seat Sam had just vacated. “If anyone can help Bronn, it’s him.”

Jaime nodded woodenly and Gilly paused. “Would you like me to stay and wait with you?”

Jaime looked up at her. She was watching him with that calculating gaze that, in the few months he'd known her, he often found fixed on him. “No, I’ll be fine.”

She left, closing the door behind her, leaving Jaime alone in the room with the unconscious Bronn. He swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe. He felt ill.

He got to his feet and added more wood to the hearth, trying to ward off the ever-present cold, and then returned to the bedside. Bronn’s ribs were bruised purple and blue all down his left side. Underneath that, his body was already far thinner than when Jaime had last seen him six months ago. Jaime reached over and pulled a blanket up over him.

An hour passed. Jaime sat listening to the soft crackling of the fire and the wind howling outside and Bronn’s shallow breathing, and without putting too much thought into it he picked up Bronn’s hand and turned it over and held it carefully and tried to will Bronn to wake. The longer he sat there, the more his throat felt like it wasn’t quite fitting inside his neck properly. He started to wonder what he would do if Bronn didn’t wake, how long his friend could survive on only water fed through his lips, if he would eventually waste away, leaving Jaime once again completely alone.

He lifted his right arm and rubbed his face on his sleeve.

And then Bronn moved.

Jaime sat frozen as Bronn flinched. He grimaced, turning his head to the side, and then groaned as his eyes opened. Jaime started to say his name but no sound came out. Bronn’s eyes finally focussed on him and he frowned.

“...dreaming…” he muttered. His voice sounded rough and raw, but he _spoke,_ and Jaime gripped his hand tightly.

“Bronn…” He didn’t know what he’d been planning to say. Bronn swallowed with difficulty—Jaime let go of his hand and jumped to his feet, hurrying to bring a cup of water from the table. Bronn tried to sit up and then collapsed with a groan. Jaime passed him the cup and slid his left hand under his head to hold him up.

“...how long…” he rasped out.

“Since you fell? Seven days. I—they sent you to me. We’re at the Waystand Holdfast. You arrived this morning.” Jaime was talking faster than usual.

“But… I’m serving Lord Killney.”

Jaime didn’t respond. He didn't know what to say. Sam had said Bronn would never be able to swing a sword again.

Jaime sat the cup back on the table and returned to the edge of the bed.

“I’m dreaming…” Bronn mumbled again, barely audible, and Jaime shook his head.

“No. You’re here.”

 

Jaime struggled through his tasks for the rest of the day. Several other badly injured men had arrived with Bronn; it had been a bad battle. He spent two hours with Rodd, the castellan, reviewing the reports, updating their intelligence on the movements of the Night King’s armies, and drawing up plans to send a scouting party out to the battlefield to check for bodies that might need burning, and any weapons or supplies that could be salvaged.

It was late when he made his way back to his room, and he thought to check on Bronn on the way—he’d given him the room right next to his own—but he heard him even before he got there, apparently well and truly losing the small amount of food he’d managed to swallow earlier.

Bronn feebly tried to wave him away when he entered, but could barely lift his hand from where it gripped the bucket between his knees. Jaime didn’t go away, but he also didn’t quite know what to do to help. After a moment standing frozen in the doorway, Jaime stepped closer and sat on the edge of the bed next to Bronn, feeling awkward, until Bronn retched violently again and Jaime automatically put his hand on Bronn’s back, steadying him.

Bronn eventually set the bucket down and let his head drop back to the pillow. Jaime watched him fall back asleep, his breathing shallow, his face an odd shade of pale green. He knew he ought to leave. Instead, he found himself waking several hours later slumped sideways on the bed next to Bronn’s knees.

 

This sort of thing became a pattern. A week later, Jaime jerked awake in his own room (for once) to find Gilly tiptoeing across his floor with a pile of his freshly cleaned clothes.

She looked over when Jaime groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, laying his clothes out.

Jaime was still fully dressed—he’d fallen asleep where he’d collapsed sideways across his bed, exhausted, the night before.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jaime said, his voice ragged, as she folded his tunic neatly.

“The maids need help,” she replied shortly. This was an argument they’d had before.

“They’ll manage. Your skills are needed with the injured.”

“I did the night shift," she replied stubbornly. "No reason I can't carry some laundry up here on the way to my room, is there?"

Jaime rubbed his face, giving up. “Did you happen to check on Bronn?” he asked. “I didn’t hear him last night.”

“I don’t think he slept,” Gilly said, finishing with the clothes and turning back to Jaime with her critical gaze. “Is he eating?”

Jaime shook his head. “He tries, but he can barely keep anything down.”

“Does he have bad dreams?”

“Yes. Every night.”

Gilly sighed. “He’s getting thinner.”

“I know,” Jaime said, the familiar heavy feeling returning to his chest. “Is there anything I can do to help him?”

“Only what you’ve been doing,” she said. “Don’t give up.”

Jaime went to Bronn’s room after Gilly left, hoping to see how he was feeling, but he wasn’t there. He stepped back into the hallway, wondering where he was, then spotted him coming around the corner, making his way slowly back, one hand out for extra support from the wall.

“Where were you?”

“Went up to the ramparts,” Bronn said hoarsely. He was pale, with dark rings under his eyes. “Needed some air.”

Jaime glanced down Bronn’s body. He still wore the ragged, dirty breeches he'd arrived in, with bare feet on the stone and a threadbare cloak wrapped tightly around him. He knew that Bronn had been brought to Waystand directly from the battlefield, with no opportunity to collect any of his things. Even his weapons had been left behind.

“I’ll get some clothes for you.”

There weren’t, in all honesty, many clothes to be had. They had started the war with a decent amount of supplies, but that was three years ago, and now everything was scarce. Jaime didn’t bother checking the stores. Instead, he pulled out some of the nicest (and ‘nice’ was a stretch) things from his own meager wardrobe, and laid them out on Bronn’s bed when he was out.

 

Jaime knew Sam told Bronn not to go outside. He also knew Bronn resented that, and stubbornly walked the ramparts each morning.

One day Jaime came past mid-morning to check on Bronn and found he was not in his room. He wondered if he had finally made it out into the yard, as he suspected Bronn desired, and started in that direction. However, it seemed that Bronn had only made it halfway—Jaime found the door to the cold and musty library sitting open, with Bronn slumped in the closest chair.

“What do you want?” Bronn asked flatly without looking round as soon as Jaime set foot in the room.

Jaime’s footsteps faltered and he came to a halt.

“I just wanted to see how you're feeling,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, but what do you _want_ , Ser Jaime,” Bronn said sarcastically, twisting around in the chair. “You want me well so I can do _what?”_ he asked pointedly.

Jaime's jaw clenched. “I want you well because I care about you,” he said seriously.

Bronn rolled his eyes. “You care about my facility for murder, that's all.”

“When did you start talking so fancy?” Jaime muttered, crossing the distance to him and pulling up another chair, plucking the book that lay open on Bronn's lap and setting it aside.

“Surprised, are you? I'm sure it comes as a shock to you that I even know how to read.”

Jaime didn't find that amusing. “Don't be ridiculous,” he said, snatching Bronn's wrist up so he could check his pulse as Gilly had taught him. They both fell into silence as Jaime concentrated on counting.

Finally he released Bronn's hand with a frown. “It's a bit fast. Probably because I've obviously done something to annoy you. Did you keep your breakfast down?”

“I don't need you acting as my nursemaid—”

“Did you keep it down?” Jaime said loudly, over him.

Bronn glared back at him for a moment before admitting, “...no.”

Jaime sighed and reached for Bronn’s forehead to check his temperature. Bronn tried to swat him away. Jaime got to his feet and pushed Bronn’s chest into the chair with his right forearm to hold him still. It showed how much strength he’d lost, that Jaime was able to pin him this way.

“Do you give all the new arrivals this treatment?” Bronn grumbled.

Jaime released him and took a step back. “Bronn, I don't understand… I thought we were friends.”

“I was a _paid_ friend who did your dirty work,” Bronn said savagely. “You're just clinging to me now because you haven't got anyone else left. Well, I might not be worth much, _Ser Jaime,_ but I do think I'm worth more than that.”

Jaime didn’t have a response to that. There was no point trying to convince Bronn that he was doing this for no other reason than friendship—he’d clearly already decided that couldn’t be true.

Something of his thoughts must have showed on his face, because Bronn’s expression suddenly lost some of its hardness, and he said, “Jaime—”

But Jaime had already turned away.

 

Four weeks passed.

A rather detached part of Jaime’s brain was honestly surprised Bronn was still alive. He was throwing up less than when he first arrived, that was true, but he wasn’t taking much in, either, and he was barely sleeping. Jaime knew because whenever Bronn woke, he woke, unable to ignore the sounds of him in the next room either emptying his guts or crying out in his sleep. He knew that both of them couldn’t continue like this indefinitely, and he thought it might all be at a rather definite end one night when he lurched awake once more to the sound of Bronn yelling out on the other side of the wall—but this time the yelling was different. Worse.

He stumbled to his feet and crossed to his door, taking the three paces down the hall then bursting in to Bronn's room. Bronn was tangled in his blankets, sweat plastered to his hair and skin as he thrashed around. Jaime leaned over him and grabbed his shoulder with his left hand, shaking him.

Bronn went rigid and then several things happened at once. Bronn's eyes flew open at the same time as his fist swung out and collected Jaime’s face cleanly, knocking him backwards, but in the second before he saw stars, he would have sworn Bronn’s eyes had been bright blue, shining in the dark room.

Then Jaime’s arse hit the floor and Bronn groaned again. He scrambled to his feet and found Bronn’s eyes closed tight again. He still wasn’t awake. He hesitated. He didn’t want to try shaking him again—that hadn’t gone so well. He took a step backwards and decided to go get Sam or Gilly for help, and started to turn away, when Bronn suddenly spoke.

“He’s coming,” he groaned, in a voice that sounded nothing like him.

“Who’s coming?” Jaime asked in confusion, but Bronn was still asleep, his head still tossing agitatedly.

Feeling increasingly panicked, Jaime backed out of the room, closed the door behind him, and hurried down the hall. Gilly’s room was closest. He didn’t knock, he just threw the door open; she wasn’t asleep anyway, instead sitting up with the child, little Sam, in her lap. She looked up as he burst in.

“It’s Bronn,” Jaime choked out. Gilly immediately set the child back in his bed and wrapped her cloak around herself, following Jaime back down the hall.

“I heard him,” she said. “I thought it was just a nightmare.”

“He won’t wake up, and he’s saying things, and his eyes looked strange—”

“What do you mean, strange?”

They were back at Bronn’s doorway. Jaime pushed inside and drew to a sudden halt. Bronn was gone.

“He… he was here a minute ago. He was asleep.”

“He can’t have passed you,” Gilly said quickly, looking back down the hallway. “He must be this way. I’ll check this level, you check up the stairs—he might be on the ramparts.”

Jaime took the stairs three at a time and pushed through the thick door on the landing. It was dark and it was snowing. The air was so cold it hurt to breathe. Jaime had no desire whatsoever to go out there, but needed to find Bronn. He closed the door behind him, wrapped his arms around his chest and started on hasty a lap around.

Halfway, he saw a figure up ahead.

“Bronn?”

Someone was leaning over the ramparts in the darkness, as though trying to see down to the ground below, or perhaps far into the distance. One hand held the pillar for support as he leaned out as far as he could—too far. As Jaime watched, the hand slipped on the damp surface, and Jaime put on a burst of speed before anything further could happen. He tackled Bronn bodily away from the edge and onto the floor.

Bronn landed with a grunt and tried to shove Jaime off him, automatically. Jaime sat heavily on his thighs and grabbed a fistful of Bronn’s shirtfront, holding him where he was. Bronn blinked up at Jaime, confused and unsure but definitely _awake._

“What are you doing?” Jaime yelled at him, over the wind.

“I—” Bronn took a breath. “What happened?”

“You almost fell off the edge!”

“The edge?” Bronn asked, bewildered. Jaime stared down at him. He really had no idea what he’d been doing.

“Were you sleepwalking?” Jaime asked, incredulous. “How could you stay asleep in _this?”_ he waved an arm at the snow.

Bronn squeezed his eyes shut. “He’s coming, Jaime.”

 _“Who?”_ Jaime exclaimed.

“The Night King. I can… He’s marching. His armies are coming this way.”

“That’s just a dream, Bronn,” Jaime said tiredly.

When Bronn didn’t reply, Jaime got to his feet. He pulled Bronn up only to have him collapse as soon as he put weight on his legs. He tugged Bronn's arm across his broad shoulders, his right arm sliding around Bronn’s waist, and half-carried him back to his room. No; he changed his mind. Jaime’s room. It was a little bigger than Bronn’s and it had a double bed instead of Bronn’s single one. He wanted to keep a closer eye on him.

Jaime lowered him onto the bed and set about removing his boots and outer layers of clothes.

Bronn let him.


	2. Chapter 2

Bronn looked drawn and unhealthy when Jaime returned to the room mid-morning with a fresh jug of water. He was awake, but barely. He set it on the nightstand and Bronn flinched at the noise.

“Gonna change my bedpan and give me a spongebath now?” Bronn muttered.

Jaime scowled, but let the comment pass. “Any more dreams?”

Bronn shook his head. He sat up on one elbow and reached for the jug to pour a cup. His hands were shaking. Jaime took the cup and did it for him.

When Bronn had downed the water and flopped back, Jaime stood looking down at him. “The maester says it was just a dream. They’ll pass.”

Bronn scowled. “They’re not passing. They’re getting worse.”

“If you’d just take milk of the poppy, you could sleep more easily and—”

“No,” Bronn said stiffly. “I told you before. That stuff is just a slow poison.”

Jaime sighed and turned to leave, but paused when Bronn spoke again.

“It only took about ten seconds, they said.”

“What did?” Jaime asked, turning back.

Bronn hesitated, and shrugged awkwardly. “Just seems odd. The Night King. He only… he only had me for about ten seconds. Pretty sure. That’s all it took.”

Jaime frowned. “I’ve heard of others he held for less time who went mad,” he said quietly.

“Who says I’m not mad?” Bronn muttered darkly.

“I do,” Jaime shot back, suddenly angry. “You’re here to get better. You’re going to get better.”

Bronn just leered at him a moment before throwing his arm over his eyes.

“Thing is,” he said to the ceiling, “I don’t see any others like me around here.”

Jaime hesitated. “Many of the injured are sent here,” he said.

“Injured, yes,” Bronn said. “But that’s not what I am, is it? Soldiers are sent here to be fixed. Minor injuries. Soldiers who can be made use of again, and soon.”

“Bronn—”

“So how did I get here?”

Jaime sighed. “I… requested you,” he admitted. “I got the battle report and I saw your name.”

Bronn lowered his arm and met Jaime’s eyes again, and Jaime waited for the rebuff, the anger. But it didn’t come.

“You saved my life then,” Bronn said, quietly, and Jaime wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“I what?”

“I’d have starved back at Killney’s,” Bronn muttered.

“You wouldn’t,” Jaime said, feeling ill.

“I would,” Bronn said sharply. “Sellsword don’t earn his keep, sellsword don’t eat.”

“You’re a _knight.”_

Bronn shrugged.

Jaime took a step closer. “Bronn— When I left Killney’s, I intended you to come with me. I couldn’t find you. The plans were made too quickly… we had to leave.”

“I know.”

“Did you— I left a note.”

Bronn closed his eyes. “I know.”

 _He knew?_ “Then why—” Jaime cut off.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew why. The simple fact was that Bronn hadn’t _wanted_ to go with Jaime. He didn’t even want to be here now. There was no need to make him spell it out.

Jaime turned and left.

 

A scouting party limped home with several injured a few days later. Jaime pushed aside the creeping feeling at the back of his mind that their report of the time of the attack coincided exactly with Bronn’s episode, the night when he climbed the rampart and blathered about the Night King. That afternoon, Jaime was with Rodd in the storerooms, checking the supply levels, when Gilly came looking for him.

“Sam wants you to see one of the injured men.”

Jaime nodded and followed her back through the keep towards the main infirmary.

“Bronn seems better,” Gilly said as they walked.

“I haven’t seen him this morning,” Jaime muttered.

“I thought he might have been assisting you today,” Gilly frowned. “Isn’t that what you brought him here for?”

Jaime frowned. “Is that what he told you?”

“Yes,” Gilly replied flatly. “He said he used to be your second-in-command, and help you with reports. Is it true you’re bad at reading?”

 _“Gilly,”_ Jaime exclaimed, turning to her.

“What?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“Don’t— don’t say that aloud.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want people to know.”

“Why not?” Gilly repeated, darkly. “I couldn’t read either until Sam taught me.”

“I just—” Jaime ran a hand over his face. “Just please don’t tell anyone. What… what else did Bronn tell you?”

Gilly shrugged, still looking offended. “He seems annoyed at you.”

_“What for?”_

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

Jaime elected not to respond to that. They reached the infirmary and started through the main room. Sam had asked Jaime to arrange certain things to be installed, such as two beams, waist height, running down the middle of the room. Men used it to relearn how to walk after bad injuries, and several were making their way along it now. There were beds for overflow, but Jaime generally preferred men to have their own room where possible, rather than keeping all the sick and injured together. Right now, with the influx of several injured men from the scouting party, some of the beds were in use. But Gilly led him past them, to a separate room at the back. As they got closer, Jaime could hear a man yelling, and his stomach jumped when at first he thought it was Bronn, but then he realised that though he recognised the tenor of the yells, the pitch was different.

They went through into the room and found Sam with another man both struggling to hold down a patient, trying to stop him injuring himself further. The sick man looked terrible, pale and drawn, and thrashing on the bed. At first Jaime didn’t recognise him, but then he remembered his name. Kiran.

“Ser Jaime,” Sam said in relief. “I wanted you to see this.”

“See what?”

Sam moved aside and revealed Kiran’s arm—he had a bright blue mark burned into his forearm, one Jaime recognised all too well.

“The Night King.”

“Yes. Kiran knew the location of the holdfast, how many men we have here, and how to get here. If the Night King read him, it’s likely he knows those things now too.”

Jaime nodded resolutely. “It was only a matter of time,” he said, unsurprised. “How long has he been like this? Can you treat him?”

“I can try,” Sam said, without confidence.

However, Jaime learned the next morning that Kiran had passed away during the night.

Bronn arrived at breakfast shortly after Sam told Jaime the news, and Jaime found he could barely drag his eyes away from his friend, watching him with increased anxiety as he brought his food tray over to sit with them.

“What?” he muttered, glancing up at Jaime.

“Nothing,” Jaime murmured, but still couldn’t drag his eyes away, assessing the colour of Bronn’s skin, looking for signs of fever or illness. Now that he had seen first-hand what could easily have been his fate, he could barely believe Bronn was here, beside him, and seemed to be alright.

“You can have it if you want it that bad,” Bronn grumbled suddenly, picking up a hardboiled egg and placing it on Jaime’s plate. Jaime blinked at it for a moment before realising Bronn had mistakenly thought Jaime was just staring at his food.

“No, it’s alright—”

“I’m not hungry anyway,” Bronn cut in.

Jaime shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “What will you do today?” he asked, carefully, making sure to not press any expectations on him. But the suggestion wasn’t lost on Bronn. His shoulders slumped as though in defeat, and he said, “Guess I’ll come with you.”

He didn’t sound too pleased, but Jaime still couldn’t help the swell of happiness he felt. He knew Bronn was still feeling… exploited, he supposed. Or perhaps that Jaime was only giving him attention because of the services he thought he was expected to provide. It wasn’t true. He’d _told_ Bronn that wasn’t true. In reality, he wouldn’t even care if Bronn decided he was just going to sit in the library every day, or something, as long as he was _there_. He didn’t know how else he could prove it to him.

However, and Jaime felt somehow _guilty_ about it from the first moment it arose, there was one thing that _did_ bother him, and he didn’t know why.

He noticed it first when Bronn accompanied him later that week as they were inspecting some construction in one area of the keep. As ever, they were subdividing rooms, adding walls or curtains, or simply putting more beds into existing rooms, trying to cram as many people into the holdfast as possible without the place descending into a completely uninhabitable hellhole. The area was busy, men going back and forth with timber and tools and weapons for training. Jaime was waiting for the foreman to find the right plan amongst a pile of papers, and he glanced over at Bronn, who was leaning back against the opposite wall in the hallway.

He was watching someone.

Jaime glanced down the hallway, and to his surprise saw that Bronn’s gaze was fixed on a tall young man with dirty blonde hair and broad shoulders. Harris, his name was. Jaime knew the name of every person who arrived here—that was his job.

As the lad walked past, he returned Bronn’s gaze, and Bronn lifted his eyebrows at him. The lad grinned back. Jaime didn’t know what exactly _that_ was, but before he could think, he had already cleared his throat loudly, snapping Bronn’s attention back to himself.

“Can I have the honour of your attention, _my Lord?”_ Jaime spat, and he wasn’t even sure where the words or the tone of his voice came from.

The thing was, it wouldn’t be the first time Jaime had encountered— _this._

It was over a year ago now since Jaime had walked right past the stall in the stables where Bronn was fucking another man.

The other man didn’t notice; he was bent over a saddle stand. Jaime froze mid-step, and Bronn saw him. Time stretched past the point when he really should have looked apologetic and hurried away. Instead he remained frozen there, completely unable to make his feet move.

He couldn’t exactly see what was happening; Bronn was facing Jaime. He couldn’t even see any skin. All he could see was the half-pained, half-blissful expression on the face of the other man, Bronn’s hands holding him steady, and the motion of Bronn’s hips as he thrust into him.

When Jaime appeared, Bronn didn’t stop. If anything, he thrust harder, his eyes locked on Jaime’s, and Jaime felt his face beginning to burn. Bronn smirked.

That was enough to snap Jaime out of it. He spun on his heel and disappeared, then spent an hour wandering in the snow, berating himself for being so immature and idiotic that he was literally frozen in place upon realising that Bronn had an interest in men. It was rude, and he was embarrassed, and he made a rather stiffly formal apology to Bronn the next time he saw him. Bronn just looked at him strangely and said he didn’t mind.

Jaime knew Bronn fucked girls as well. He supposed his friend wasn’t picky. That made sense to Jaime on some level; especially now, when any of them were lucky to survive from one day to the next.

It wasn’t as though Jaime didn’t get propositioned. He did, and often. But in truth he hadn’t been touched by another person for years. Not that he gave it much thought.

 

Late the following evening, Jaime and Rodd were going over the ledgers, the papers spread out at the end of one of the long tables in the mess hall, when Bronn marched up to them, looking pissed.

“You sent him on a convoy,” Bronn spat, slamming his palms down on the table opposite Jaime.

“Who?” Jaime asked, trying to retain his focus enough to finish the word he was slowly tracing out.

“That lad.”

Jaime frowned up at Bronn. “What lad?”

“You know who, you cunt.”

Jaime blinked. Harris. The lad Bronn had been looking at. Frowning, Rodd fished out the list they’d prepared the evening before; they’d assigned several men to a supply mission which left early this morning, but he couldn’t remember deliberately assigning Harris to the group. When he took the list from Rodd, the name jumped out at him straight away; turns out he had.

He looked back up at Bronn. He wasn’t sure what to say. Bronn clearly thought he’d done it on purpose; there was no point denying it. “You don’t even know his name?” he said finally, hoping to point out that it couldn’t have been that much of a loss.

Bronn ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek. “I would’ve found out.”

“I’m sure,” Jaime replied, and he wished Bronn would stop looking at him like that. Bronn clenched his fists and almost said something else but didn’t. He stormed off.

Rodd sorted the list back into the pile. “Very good, my lord. Best to discourage fraternisation where possible.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Jaime said honestly.

“Of course, of course,” Rodd agreed with a smug grin, and Jaime frowned.

They finished up an hour later and retired for the night. Jaime found his room empty, but noticed the gap under Bronn’s door held some candlelight; he was likely still awake. Jaime knocked softly.

“Bronn?”

“Hang on,” came Bronn’s slightly panicked voice, and Jaime frowned.

“I’m sorry about Harris—that lad. I didn’t think.”

“I said hang on, cunt,” Bronn growled back at him.

Jaime sighed. “What are you _doing?”_

Bronn opened the door, looking slightly frazzled. Jaime tried to peer past him. “Is there someone else here?” he whispered.

“I— _no,”_ Bronn exclaimed.

“Oh. Then come share my bed. You know you never sleep well alone.”

Bronn squeezed his eyes shut. “Jaime…”

“Last night you slept the full night through,” Jaime pointed out. “The night before that you slept in here and you had nightmares. It’s alright, I don’t mind. Sometimes it’s nicer to have a roommate, it’s less lonely.”

“I know, but—”

“It’s a big bed. It doesn’t make a difference to me whether you’re there or not.”

For some reason, Bronn scowled at this, but then he shrugged. “Whatever. Alright, then.”

It was true; Jaime didn’t mind. It wasn’t like they disturbed each other; they never even touched. Bronn came in a few minutes later and lay down on the other side of the bed. Jaime went to sleep.

 

Bronn didn’t always come to meals. He slept through breakfast the next day, which wasn’t unusual. But Jaime spotted him the moment he entered the mess hall at lunch time. He stood and waved so Bronn would know where to sit. Bronn nodded at him across the room and went to get a meal tray.

Jaime sat back down and noticed Gilly, on his left, giving him her calculating gaze again.

“He still seems unhappy.”

“He’s still in pain,” Jaime replied, focusing on his food.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Gilly said carefully. “Are things alright, you know—between you?”

Jaime looked back at her. “Of course. We’ve been friends a long time.”

“Friends,” Gilly repeated, flatly. Jaime raised an eyebrow at the sudden movement from Sam on Gilly’s other side. Gilly’s head whipped around to glare at him. Sam smiled at Jaime appeasingly and neither of them said anything more.

Bronn joined them, sitting opposite on the long table. He looked unhealthy again, pale and tired, and jumpy.

“Did you sleep well, Bronn?” Gilly asked, studying him. He just shook his head.

The four of them ate in silence amongst the noise of the mess hall for several minutes.

And then something strange happened.

One of the younger children came running down the aisle behind the bench where Bronn sat. The child tripped and fell, his food tray crashing to the ground right behind Bronn. And something happened to Bronn.

He went rigid and yelled out and before Jaime could move he had tumbled backwards off the bench onto the hard floor. Jaime scrambled to his feet and ran down around the long table and back up the aisle again. By the time he got back to Bronn, others had gathered around him, and although the voices in the mess hall were loud as usual, Jaime could hear Bronn groaning in pain through them.

He shoved people aside to get to Bronn. He knelt down next to him, and put a hand on his cheek. As soon as he touched his skin Bronn’s eyes opened and he gasped and his gaze locked on Jaime’s, desperation in his eyes.

Gilly tried to herd people away and Sam saw to the child first—his tooth had gone clean through his bottom lip when he fell and there was blood everywhere.

Jaime lifted Bronn bodily up over his shoulder. Bronn hung limply there, giving no resistance at all. Jaime carried him out of the mess hall, into the relative privacy of the hallway, and set him down. He didn’t expect Bronn’s legs to hold him—he eased him down to the floor and leant him back against the wall. Once he seemed stable, Jaime started to move back, but Bronn threw out a hand to grab Jaime’s arm, pulling him back.

“Don’t—” he said hoarsely, and Jaime had no idea what he meant, but he nodded, and didn’t move away. Instead, he reached out instinctively and tipped Bronn’s head forward onto his shoulder, his hand cupping the back of Bronn’s neck, and Bronn rested his forehead there, breathing hard.

Jaime realised his hand was shaking, and gripped the back of Bronn’s collar firmly, stilling it.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” Bronn replied thickly. “Heard the crash and then— it was like I was back there— back on that battlefield— all over again.”

“Did the crash remind you of something?”

“Dunno,” Bronn said tightly, gasping in air. “I dunno.” He pressed his face into Jaime’s neck. “I think I’m going mad, Jaime.”

“You’re not going mad," Jaime said, fighting the tremor in his voice. "I’ve seen mad and you’re not it. You’re getting better.”

Bronn shook his head slightly. “I’m not,” he said, his voice muffled into Jaime’s tunic. “Jaime. What do you call a sellsword without a sword? Useless. It’s alright, when I’m gone you’ll find someone to replace me. There are hundreds of me.”

“That’s not true,” Jaime growled, shaking him slightly. “None of that is true. I didn’t bring you here just to work for me.”

“Then why?”

“Because I need you.”

“Yeah, to help with your reports, and whip the men into line, and—”

 _“No._ Not just to help out… I don’t care if you never help out. I don’t care if you do nothing all day. I just need you with me, alright?”

Bronn went still. “But _why, Jaime?”_

Jaime was confused by the question. “I don’t know.” Because the only time he felt like he could breathe properly was when Bronn was beside him? He couldn’t say that, though, it sounded stupid.

He eased Bronn back against the wall again, and put his hand on Bronn’s cheek. Bronn met his gaze. “You’re going to get better,” Jaime said, more to convince himself than Bronn, but Bronn looked like he wanted to believe him. Jaime brushed a thumb across his cheekbone, and wished he knew what he could say to _make_ Bronn believe it, but then there was hurrying footsteps as Sam arrived, and Jaime moved back out of the way.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Jaime made a point of getting Bronn up so they could walk to breakfast together.

Bronn wasn’t usually awake when Jaime got up, even when they shared a bed—never, actually—but today he wanted Bronn with him. He had a plan. However, he realised they’d never actually both got up at the same time before, and he was completely unprepared when Bronn stripped all his clothes off without fuss and went to stand over the basin for a wash.

Jaime was halfway through reaching for a clean pair of pants but he froze halfway through the movement as Bronn stalked across the room, completely naked.

He supposed Bronn wouldn’t be considered attractive, objectively. He honestly had no idea what people found attractive in men. In women either, really, if he was being honest. He never gave it much thought. But Bronn was lean from being ill, and though Jaime hadn’t seen him like this before, he knew he had less muscle mass than he used to, and his torso was littered with scars—not to mention the now-faded blue mark on the back of his right shoulder.

But Jaime also noticed other things. He noticed his collarbones. He noticed the dark hair on his chest and arms and legs—so different from Jaime’s own body—and also dusting down his lower stomach and between his legs. He couldn’t help looking _there_ either. And though Jaime couldn’t say he’d seen too many other cocks before, and he knew his own was average in size or maybe a little above, Bronn’s was _far_ above average.

And then he noticed Bronn was watching him.

Jaime looked away quickly, and felt his cheeks burning. He waited for the sarcastic comment, but it didn’t come. He changed quickly, facing the wall, and felt Bronn’s eyes on him the whole time. He had never in the whole time they’d been sharing the room felt this kind of tension. He avoided Bronn’s eyes as much as possible as they finished getting ready and started down the hall, though when he did catch a glimpse, he saw Bronn was still watching him with a thoughtful expression. Jaime didn’t think his face returned to a normal colour until they arrived at breakfast, where the distraction of the noisy mess hall helped him to forcibly put the incident out of his mind.

Though Jaime tried, he couldn’t get Bronn to eat much. A slice of bread and a boiled egg and he said he couldn’t eat any more. As he was finishing, Jaime leaned across to him to be heard over the clamour.

“I’m training new troops today. I could use some help—will you come?”

Bronn raised an eyebrow at him, then shrugged.

“Alright.”

 

The ‘troops’ they were training were almost all children, just recently come of age to join the North’s forces—both boys and girls, all lined up in the training hall, some eager, some terrified. The space had previously been a ballroom; Jaime had converted it. It now held four training rings and several racks of sparring swords along the walls. Jaime gave Bronn the job of teaching absolute basics—sword grips and fundamentals of footwork. He _knew_ , from personal experience, that Bronn was a good teacher, and he hoped he might enjoy this work.

More than anything, he wanted Bronn to cheer up a bit.

The morning passed by quickly. Jaime had to pay attention to some of the older children, but he glanced over at Bronn as often as possible, and was relieved to see he did seem to be enjoying himself. His head shot up as he heard a bark of laughter, something he hadn’t heard from Bronn in a long time, and saw him overseeing a very amateur fight between a young boy and girl, the girl repeatedly bashing the boy over the head with the sparring sword, Bronn laughing as he dived forward to rescue the boy, and Jaime felt something like warmth in his chest as he watched.

At the end of the morning, the children replaced their weapons on the racks and filed out. Bronn started to follow them.

“Bronn.” Jaime called him back, and started across the room in the other direction.

Bronn followed him through a door at the back of the training hall into the armoury proper, a long stone room where all the edged weapons were stored. There was nothing spectacular in there, but everything was ready to go for live use. Importantly, most of the swords were dragonglass, hastily forged at the start of the war.

Bronn hadn’t seen the room before; he wandered down the racks, taking in the inventory. “Better supplied than I expected.”

“I put a lot of work in to make it that way,” Jaime said blandly.

“Your ledgers.”

“Yes. And scouting parties scouring every recent battlefield for dropped weapons before they disappear in the snow.”

Bronn nodded, and looked back to Jaime. “Want me to do something?” he asked, with an expression that told Jaime he expected to be asked to clean every blade until it sparkled, or something.

Jaime shook his head, then waved his arm at the room. “Pick something. I know you lost your own weapons.”

Bronn just stared at him.

Jaime glanced around the room. “There’s nothing very good, I’m afraid.” He took a few steps to one of the racks stacked high with swords. “Some of these aren’t bad, though.” He lifted one of the nicer swords off the rack and passed it to Bronn, who took it with a slightly shaky hand. He lifted it, felt the weight of it, and looked up at Jaime.

Jaime gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “What do you think?” he asked.

Bronn gave a small shrug, looking back down at the sword, clenching his jaw.

“Alright. You’ll need a scabbard,” Jaime added. “There are some over here, I think…”

He crossed to the corner and rifled through a pile of them. When he found a nice one, he turned back. He saw Bronn’s hand dropping away from his face.

“Will this one fit?” he asked, holding it up to the blade.

Bronn nodded and took it, sliding the blade home, and finally spoke. “The maester said I’d never swing a sword again,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

“I know what he said,” Jaime replied. “The maesters aren’t always right. Sam isn’t even a proper maester anyway. Besides, I was told the same thing, remember?”

Bronn’s eyes were oddly bright as he nodded.

“Here, I have one other thing,” Jaime said, turning to the bench behind him. “I found this earlier. I thought you might like it.”

He held it out to Bronn. It was a dagger - a rather nice one - with a sheath that could sit at the small of his back, just like Bronn preferred. Bronn took it, his lips pursed and his tongue stuck in his cheek, but he’d fallen silent again.

“You don’t like it?” Jaime asked, unsure. He’d thought it was a nice one, that it suited Bronn. He’d set it aside specially.

“Jaime—” Bronn said, cutting in to Jaime’s thoughts. To Jaime’s surprise, he stepped forward and put his hand on Jaime’s arm, squeezing firmly. “Thank you.”

Jaime nodded, smiling slightly, suddenly awkward. Bronn’s hand dropped away.

 

Jaime worked late that night, his thoughts constantly skittering back to the odd tension he’d felt in his room that morning, as he resolutely tried not to think about it. It was midnight by the time he finished up. Bronn was already in his bed— _their_ bed?—and fast asleep when Jaime stepped through the doorway. He changed, glancing over at the other man's sleeping face every now and then. Then he climbed in on the opposite side of bed, being careful not to wake him.

He felt like he’d barely fallen asleep before something roused him again. He opened his eyes, looked to his right, and Bronn was gone. A floorboard creaked. He sat up in the darkness and saw the other man halfway to the door.

“Bronn?”

He didn’t turn around. Jaime got to his feet and hurried over. As he’d expected, Bronn’s eyes were closed. He was sleepwalking.

He put his hand to Bronn’s cheek and remained wary of his arms, in case he decided to throw a punch again.

“Bronn. Bronn, it’s Jaime. Wake up.”

To his relief, this worked. Bronn’s eyes opened.

“Jaime…” he breathed.

“It’s alright, it was a dream,” Jaime murmured, withdrawing his hand from Bronn’s clammy skin. Automatically, he reached for Bronn’s wrist to take his pulse, something he never got out of the habit of. Bronn scuffled with him until he got a grip on Jaime’s forearm, holding him still.

“Jaime,” he repeated. “Go check the guards.”

“What?”

“Go check for ravens. Check the guards on the gate. He’s coming. Something’s coming.”

“Bronn, you just had a bad dream—”

_“Jaime—”_ Bronn said, desperately, in a voice Jaime had never heard before. Jaime relented immediately, and nodded. He turned and pulled some warm clothes on haphazardly. Bronn followed him, his legs unsteady, going to splash water on his face. Jaime crossed the room to leave. Bronn grabbed Jaime’s sword off the hook and pressed it into his hand.

“I’ll catch up to you,” he said shakily. “I just— I need a minute.”

Jaime nodded and left. He hurried through the dark, silent halls, almost at a run, to the guard station just inside the heavy main doors to the keep. All looked normal as he approached. The two soldiers on duty—Alla and Pitt—sat up when they saw him coming.

“Commander.”

“Any reports?”

“Nothing, Ser.”

Jaime nodded. “Go check the men on the gate, see if they’ve seen anything. And Alla, you go check the ramparts, make sure nothing is amiss.”

“Should there be, Ser?” Alla asked, pulling on her helm.

“I’m not sure,” Jaime replied. He didn’t _want_ to think Bronn’s dreams meant anything, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that he had correctly sensed the Night King’s last attack. He had to assume this was the same thing. If it all turned out to be nothing, he could just tell everyone it was a drill.

He marched down the next hall and banged on the door of the master-at-arms. Raynor answered seconds later, clearly having just leapt from his bed, but already fully alert. 

“Rouse the men. Prepare for an attack.”

“Yes, Ser,” Raynor nodded without fuss. Jaime returned to the silent guard station in the dark entrance hall. Pitt still hadn’t returned from the gate. The small side-door into the yard stood ajar. Jaime stepped over to it, intending to go after him. He put his hand on the door and looked outside.

Out of nowhere, a wild, haggard face charged forward out of the snow. Jaime yelled out instinctively and it was only a flinch reaction that saved him, as he slammed the heavy door right in the wight's face. One arm had reached forward to grab at him, and it snapped off at the elbow with the force of the door slamming into the frame, falling to the floor and twitching grotesquely. Jaime stood for one second breathing hard in shock, then spun on his heel as Alla came running down the stairs from the ramparts. “We’re under attack!” she yelled. “They’re coming out of the forest, hundreds of them!”

“I’ve already called the to-arms,” Jaime said quickly, hauling a torch down off its bracket to set the detached arm alight. “Go rouse the rest of the keep. Put the infirmary on alert.”

“Yes, Ser.”

From there, Jaime felt his brain shifting into that automatic, trained mode—that mode where he knew exactly what to do and did it without thought or hesitation, because this was what they’d been planning for. Ever since he arrived, they’d been planning for an attack like this.

The castle was well-prepared, but still, as the night went on, they were significantly tested. The wights breached the gate but didn’t get inside the keep; they drove them back before they could, cornering them inside the yard and hastily resealing the gate. Men lined the walls with flaming arrows, driving back the wights still emerging from the trees.

To Jaime’s relief, the Night King himself wasn’t seen.

Bronn joined him in the charge on the yard, and stayed by his side through the night, as they fought back the last few wights inside the walls.

Finally, the sky started to lighten, and the sun rose weakly. Jaime was exhausted as they cleared out the remaining monsters; exhausted enough that he didn’t see a large wight with long limbs wielding a massive warhammer coming his way. He didn’t get out of the way in time; the swing of the hammer collected him and slammed him into the wall.

Jaime saw stars. Bronn was there a second later, his boot in front of Jaime’s face in the snow as he stood over him, cutting the wight down before it could do any further damage.

“Jaime—”

Jaime was so winded he could barely breathe in. Bronn dropped to his knees next to him and hauled him upright, saying, “Jaime— Jaime— _fuck, Jaime,”_ over and over.

"I'm alright," he wheezed, trying to let the startled muscles in his chest relax enough for him to take air in again. "Bronn, I'm alright."

Bronn leaned back to look at him, holding Jaime by his shoulders. 

“You’re… you’re not hurt?”

“Just winded,” Jaime said, still struggling to breathe right. “I’ll be fine.”

Bronn shook his head in something like exasperation. "Your ribs must be fucking smashed, let me see."

And he pulled at Jaime's clothes, yanking his jerkin open and tugging his shirt from the waistband of his pants.

“Bronn—” Jaime said rather breathlessly as Bronn's cold fingers brushing against his sensitive skin, tugging his shirt up higher and ducking his head to look properly. It didn't really hurt. Not yet, anyway; he knew he'd feel it tomorrow. But for now all Jaime could feel was gentle fingers running across his ribs and stomach, slightly ticklish and _strange—_ when was the last time anyone touched him there? He didn't know, and he couldn't help the small gasp that escaped his lips as Bronn's thumb traced the top of Jaime's hip.

Bronn looked up at him sharply. Jaime opened his mouth to say something but Bronn cut off whatever it was by pulling him forward and pressing his lips roughly to Jaime’s.

Jaime felt heat fill him up from head to toe, and his stomach flipped over backwards. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t _this_ — _this_ was—

It was over far too quickly. Before he could even decide what he thought of it, Bronn was getting to his feet and picking up his sword.

“I’ll… go make sure the walls are clear,” he said, a little hoarse but otherwise back to business.

Jaime blinked up at him, breathless, and confused by this sudden change.

“Bronn—”

“I’ll report back. You’d better get the gates sealed up.”

“I— alright.”

And then he was gone.

 

Jaime, along with everyone else in the holdfast, had hours of work ahead of them even after they’d seen off the attack. Shoring up the gate was the most urgent task, along with burning the bodies from the fight—almost exclusively wights, but Pitt and the two men who had been on the wall had been killed in the initial assault. Also urgent was arranging a scouting party, as quietly as possible, to assess the surrounding forest and find out if any more wights were out there. Planning this took several hours, but Jaime managed to get the small group of men out the gate by mid-morning.

By midday, he was in the process of compiling reports to be sent out by raven. He sat at the end of a table in the mess hall, Rodd and Raynor both assisting. Jaime was so tired it was hard to concentrate on the words.

Then, he felt something like a small shot of adrenaline down his spine as he looked up and saw Bronn. He was all the way across the room, leaning against the doorframe. He looked tired too, but his eyes were on Jaime and he had that look—something like the look he’d levelled on Harris that time, except more. Intense. Dark. Jaime’s stomach flipped over.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said to Rodd, and got to his feet, starting towards Bronn as though drawn on a string. When he saw he was coming, Bronn turned casually away, stepping through the door, out into the corridor. He was gone when Jaime got there.

Jaime frowned, looking left and right, then started to the left down the hall, wondering what was going on, and then—

He let out a yelp when he passed the next intersection and a hand shot out to grab him, dragging him sideways into a smaller side-corridor. He was slammed against the wall, Bronn’s hands on his chest and arm, holding him there. Jaime suddenly found it hard to meet Bronn's eyes. Bronn grinned.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Jaime managed, despite his racing heart.

“I dunno,” Bronn said with a smirk, drawing back, taking his hands off Jaime. “Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Depends what you want me to do.”

“Wh… what I want?” Jaime repeated. His brain was struggling to keep up. There was suddenly a distinct lack of upward blood flow happening in his body generally.

“Yeah. What do you want, Jaime?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jaime said, feeling panic rising in him slightly.

Bronn just smiled lopsidedly. “Now that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? You really have no idea.” He shook his head, almost to himself, and muttered, “And all this time, all these years, I thought you weren’t interested.”

“Interested?” Jaime repeated blankly.

“Aye. Interested. In me.”

Bronn stepped closer again, but still didn’t touch. Jaime swallowed hard.

“Any thoughts on that?”

Jaime shook his head.

“No? Well, let’s review,” Bronn said, teasingly. “I kissed you before, and I think you liked it.”

Jaime felt his cheeks burning. “I— I don’t know, it was barely— I couldn’t tell—”

Jaime didn’t really know what he was saying, but it didn’t matter anyway, because Bronn’s lips closed on his, cutting off any more words.

He made a noise of surprise, and for a second wondered wildly if he ought to push Bronn away. This couldn’t be right, Jaime didn’t _do_ this kind of thing, not with anyone, not for _years,_ and yet… And yet pushing Bronn away was the last thing he wanted to do. Bronn slipped an arm around the small of Jaime’s back, pulling him closer, and Jaime fit neatly up against Bronn's hard body as though they were two jigsaw pieces slotting together. It felt _right…_

Then, uncertainty suddenly washed over him. Where was he meant to put his hand, exactly? He grabbed Bronn's sleeve, but that didn't seem right. And should he be doing something else? He couldn’t even remember how all of this _worked—_ and his lips felt dry and—he let out an unsteady breath as Bronn _licked_ at his upper lip, then his lower, and then they were sliding against each other smoothly, and a feeling surged in him, heat and dizziness, like he might just pass out right here, and he groaned, the sound muffled against Bronn’s lips.

Bronn lifted a hand to Jaime’s face and put a gentle thumb on his chin, opening his mouth wider, and then pressed his tongue forward. Jaime didn’t remember kissing feeling like this. He didn’t think Cersei had ever kissed like this—but he didn’t want to think about Cersei now. He couldn’t think about _anything_ right now, as Bronn did things with his tongue that made Jaime feel like a loose, limp puddle.

He was only held up against the wall by the pressure of Bronn’s chest against his and Bronn’s thigh pressing between his legs. And Jaime suddenly realised for the first time that despite whatever concerns he’d had earlier, his cock was _most definitely_ interested in what was going on here. He didn’t know how he could have ever thought otherwise; the thought that he could ever not want this, not _need_ this, was now completely ridiculous.

Then Bronn drew back, a thin trail of spit still connecting him to Jaime’s parted, slightly puffy-feeling lips as he tried hard to draw enough air in. Bronn wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stepped back. Jaime almost fell over, only just managing to steady himself with an arm thrown out against the wall.

Bronn looked extremely satisfied. “You’d better get back to work, then,” he said.

Jaime blinked at him. “W-work?” he repeated dumbly.

Bronn smirked. “I’ll see you later, Commander.”

Jaime stared after Bronn as he disappeared around the corner, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He took several deep steadying breaths, his brain skipping over the previous few minutes haphazardly, and one thing stood out to him— _all these years, I thought you weren't interested_. That was what Bronn had said. Years? Jaime pushed carefully off the wall, testing the ability of his legs to hold him once more, and tried distractedly to straighten his clothes.  _Years?_  


	4. Chapter 4

Jaime felt _happy_. It wasn’t a familiar emotion for him. He returned to Rodd and Raynor and sat back down, picking up his quill again, and noticed they were both looking at him strangely. He realised he was smiling. He quickly wiped the grin off his face and got back to his task. He didn’t care what they thought. Bronn had kissed him.

Bronn had _kissed_ him. And Jaime had liked it a lot. He kept thinking about it, replaying it in his head—that and the previous time. Bronn had kissed him _twice_ now, actually. The first time he had been so shocked he didn’t know what to think, but the second time…

He realised he had once again become completely absorbed in his thoughts, staring at the raven scroll before him without seeing and running his thumb slowly back and forth along his bottom lip.

When he realised what he was doing, he lowered his hand with a small shake of his head, trying to focus.

Another two hours, and he had finished off everything that he could do for now. All of them needed to rest.

Though, sleeping certainly wasn’t the thing in the forefront of Jaime’s mind as he made his way back to his room with rather quick steps. He couldn’t wait to see Bronn again. He wondered if he would kiss him again. He wondered if he might do _more_ than just kiss him, and the thought sent a physical shiver down his spine.

He stepped through the door, a grin already on his face, his stomach already twisting pleasantly… but the room was empty.

“Bronn?” he said dumbly, his brain struggling to catch up with this set of facts.

He went next door. He wasn’t there either. He closed the door behind him and wandered down the hallway, wondering where he could be. He checked the privy. He checked the library. He checked the armoury.

Nothing.

He was emerging from the training hall when a voice shouted, “Commander!”

Jaime turned to see Alla running over to him. “Commander,” she panted, “The Night King… you have to come see.”

Jaime took off at a run after her. Not back to the guard station, as he’d suspected, but down a hallway and into someone’s room.

“What…” Jaime trailed off as he realised Rodd, Raynor and Gilly were already all in there, standing around the window. Jaime stepped over hesitantly, and then he understood why.

This room happened to have a perfect view across the holdfast’s outer walls. And Jaime’s stomach sunk like a brick as he took in the sight. Several figures stood perfectly still along the wall in the fading light. Not wights… men. At least fifteen of them. Jaime ran his eyes along their numbers, recognising them all from the holdfast, including each of the men he’d sent out on a scouting party only hours before, and the two men who had been guarding the gate. And the last in line was Bronn.

Gilly gripped his arm suddenly as another figure emerged from the other side of the wall. They’d put a ladder up. He climbed up and over. It was the Night King.

“They all have the touch,” Gilly whispered. “He’s controlling them.”

Jaime looked closer. It was hard to notice from this distance, but he suddenly realised each of the people lined up on the wall had their eyes closed, asleep, like Bronn had been the night before.

As Jaime watched, the wights started appearing up over the wall. They climbed up from outside on the ladders, and crossed between the holdfast men lined up on the wall, brushing and bumping them as they passed, and then leapt off the wall into the outer courtyard. They smashed apart on impact with the ground, but quickly reassembled themselves, the fall apparently not causing them any difficulty.

A pain suddenly shot through Jaime’s head, like the worst headache he’d ever had. At the same time, he noticed the others in the room all jolted as well. Gilly’s hands flew to grip her head. And then a voice pounded through Jaime’s mind. There was no question who’s it was.

“Surrender the holdfast,” it said, ripping through his thoughts. “Or each of these men will die.”

And one of the men on the wall—Jarrod—suddenly started walking forward, and Jaime wanted to yell out but it was already too late. He walked right off the edge, fell to the ground, and the wights were on him in a second, tearing him to shreds.

With a growl, Jaime turned to the others. “Raynor. Use the eastern tower. As many men as you can fit up there, flaming arrows. Rain them down on the outer courtyard.”

“Yes, Ser.”

“Go, now.”

Raynor took off at a run. Jaime looked to Rodd. “Take ten men. Barricade the inner gate.” Rodd nodded and turned to go.

Gilly looked to Jaime with wide eyes as he started for the door. “Get the infirmary ready,” he said. “There may be more casualties.”

“Jaime,” she said sharply, and he paused. “What about the men on the wall? Are you going to rescue them?”

“He has them hostage,” Jaime said, his strategist’s brain talking, “I can’t prioritise a few men over the safety of the entire holdfast, it’s not always possible to save everyone—”

“What about Bronn? Jaime, you have to try.”

Jaime blinked at her, several things racing through his head that he squashed down. He didn’t have time. “I’m going to try.”

 

Jaime found several other strategic points around the holdfast and sent as many archers as would fit at each point, instructing them to smash out the windows if they needed to, as long as they could rain fire down on the outer courtyard, and at all costs stop the wights getting their ladders over and up against the inner wall.

Then he lit a torch and gathered together another twenty men as he hurried towards the cellars. Rodd had told Jaime all the secrets of the holdfast when he’d arrived as the new Commander, but he hadn’t had cause to use this one before now. He led the men down the stairs into a dank cellar with bare cask racks, across the stone floor, and lifted his foot to kick a table over. Behind it, concealed in the wall was a lever. He pulled it, and a stone door swung open, revealing more steps leading down into pitch darkness. He led the men forward, holding the torch high, down to a deep tunnel that reeked of stagnant water and mould. He raced through the tunnel, the men hot on his heels, and they emerged through a trapdoor into the darkness outside the holdfast, just beyond the treeline. The men streamed forward from the tunnel, taking the wights in their flank.

Jaime waited until the last of them emerged and then closed the trapdoor behind them. He straightened and turned, looking up on the wall, but couldn’t make out the shapes of the men up there. He hoped desperately the Night King hadn’t already ordered them all off the edge.

And then a shape emerged out of the darkness, at speed. A blade swung down at his head with force. Jaime stepped back out of range just in time as he realised what it was—it was Bronn. His eyes were glowing blue.

Jaime’s stomach jolted in shock, but after a moment he realised he wasn’t a wight. He moved differently to the wights. Not quite normal, but not the same jerky shuffle either. He was still alive, but under the control of the Night King.

“Bronn,” he whispered. He didn’t want to give away his position, but he couldn’t waste this opportunity. He’d been able to wake Bronn before, the other times this had happened. He should be able to wake him now.

Bronn swung again. Jaime darted out of the way. There was no way he was going to draw his own sword, not even in defence. He didn’t want Valyrian steel anywhere near Bronn, in case it affected him somehow. Still, he needed to watch the other man’s blade, the one Jaime had given him only two days ago.

The next time Bronn swung, Jaime darted forward on the follow-through, wrapping his arms around him, trapping Bronn’s sword-arm against his chest and holding him still. The other man was icy cold through his clothes, and Jaime was immediately worried for his fingers and toes. He wasn’t dressed for this weather, and he’d already been out here for hours.

“Bronn, it’s me, it’s Jaime,” he said, his face close to the emotionless glowing eyes. Bronn struggled against his hold, and then in a sudden burst of power, threw him off. Jaime fell on his arse in the snow, and rolled quickly to the side as the blade came down after him.

“Bronn, wake up, I need you,” Jaime said in a hoarse whisper, diving forward again on the next follow-through. This time he collected Bronn around the waist and tumbled him to the ground. He dropped the sword. Jaime sat heavily on him, holding him down as he struggled. He bent his head forward with the effort, and his forehead brushed Bronn’s cheek, and for a moment the other man stilled.

Jaime suddenly remembered. When Bronn fell over in the mess hall, Jaime had touched his skin. When he had tackled him off the edge of the ramparts, he’d grabbed his bare hand. When he woke him from sleepwalking last night, he’d touched his face. Jaime ripped his glove off with his teeth and put his palm to Bronn’s cheek. Bronn stopped struggling. He lay still.

“Bronn. I need you.” And he kissed him.

His lips were icy cold. His body was stiff. But, then, he shifted slightly, and Jaime felt warm air against his face, and he opened his eyes, and no longer saw bright blue. Just regular blue.

“Jaime…” Bronn said hoarsely, squinting at him and then turning his head, looking around. “What the…”

Jaime scrambled back, getting off him, and tugged him up. Bronn was starting to shake already. Jaime got him on his feet, then took off his own cloak and tossed it around his shoulders.

“Bronn, you’re alright,” Jaime said, wrapping his arms around him to help warm him up but also to hold him tightly in relief. “You’re… you’re alright, aren’t you?”

“The fuck’s going on,” Bronn muttered, muffled.

Jaime drew back. “The Night King was controlling you. You and some others. He was threatening to kill you.”

“The Night King is here?” Bronn repeated, looking around. “Where the fuck are we?”

“He’s attacking the holdfast. We’re just outside the walls.”

“And we… what were we…” he looked around. Saw his sword lying in the snow.

“You attacked me. But I woke you up.”

“Jaime…”

Bronn looked unwell. Jaime picked his sword up for him, stepped over and slid it back in his scabbard.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.”

They went back through the trapdoor, down the tunnel in the dark and back up into the keep in time to see the soldiers who had swarmed the wall being let hastily back in through the barricade, dragging the other touched men with them, many still under the Night King’s influence. As the last man came back through, they hurriedly closed the doors again and replaced the layers of thick wooden beams.

When Raynor saw Jaime, he hurried over. “The charge was a good idea, but there are just too many of them. Come, look.”

Jaime and Bronn followed him quickly up the stairs to the closest window. Wights were streaming from the forest again. They had more ladders. There were thousands of them. The outer courtyard was aflame, but there were so many it wasn’t making a difference.

“They can’t keep coming forever,” Bronn said, though he sounded like he wasn’t sure.

“We have no idea of their numbers,” Raynor said grimly. “Maybe they can.”

“There must be something we can do,” Jaime said. He looked from Rodd to Raynor. Both were shaking their heads.

“We can’t risk any more men in a charge,” Raynor said. “Better to stay closed in and pick them off.”

“Until we run out of arrows,” Rodd added.

“I sent ravens,” Jaime said, his voice sounding hollow. “Someone might come.”

“Aye, someone might,” Raynor said, grasping Jaime’s arm on his way out the door. “We should maintain our barricades as long as we can, and try to take as many of them with us as possible.”

 

An hour later, Bronn gripped a longbow as Jaime led him up the narrow spiral stairs to one of the towers along the wall. It was a guardstation, like the others, equipped with spare weapons and a narrow window to shoot out. Bronn looked out the window at the masses of wights lined up below.

“We’re fucked,” he said with sarcastic joviality. He turned away from the window with a sigh. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Jaime leaned on the small table in the corner and shrugged. “You’re a good shot. You can get some of them from up here, once they clear the wall.”

“You can’t shoot, though.”

Jaime hesitated. “I wanted to be with you.”

“When we die?” Bronn asked harshly.

Jaime fixed his gaze on the floor. “I wanted to be with you when we’re alive, too,” he said to the stone. There was a pause of several seconds, then Bronn’s boots appeared in his vision as he stepped closer. A finger on his chin tilted his gaze back up to meet Bronn’s, all sarcasm gone now.

“There’s breath in our lungs yet,” he said raggedly, and bent to kiss Jaime.

Jaime scrabbled for a grip on Bronn’s tunic as the kiss rapidly turned desperate and crushing. This could be their last day, their last hour. Bronn threaded his fingers into Jaime’s hair and Jaime tried to concentrate on remaining upright, holding tight to his shirtfront then his belt as Bronn leaned him backwards, tilting Jaime’s head up even higher and then lowering his mouth to his throat. He sucked hard on his pulse point, making Jaime squirm, then brought his hands up to the clasp of Jaime’s cloak, undoing it and throwing it aside. Jaime moved his arms out of the way so Bronn could unlace his jerkin and pushed it off his shoulders. His tunic wouldn’t untie as easily; Bronn tore it with a snarl, shoving it off Jaime’s arms and then running his hands over his chest, shoulders, stomach, back. He didn’t spend long on that; within a minute, his hands were at the laces of Jaime’s breeches, and a second later, he pulled Jaime to his feet and the last of his clothes slipped off his hips.

Bronn drew back long enough to suck two fingers into his mouth, and Jaime watched him, confused, until he returned to kissing Jaime. Bronn's arms snaked around his waist again, and then both hands were on his arse, one spreading his cheeks as the other, the one with the wet fingers, pushed against his entrance.

Jaime yelled out. He didn’t know what he expected, but it hadn’t been this—and held tight to Bronn’s shoulder with his left hand as one of the fingers pushed inside him. It hurt—it _sort of_ hurt—and it felt strange and wrong and more intimate than anything anyone had ever done to him in his life. Bronn was _inside_ him.

“Relax,” Bronn breathed in his ear.

He pushed further in and Jaime felt panicked, he didn't know what it was meant to feel like but the closest thing he could think of wasn’t exactly arousing. He felt pressure on his insides and he felt _loosened_ in a way that was unsettling and awkward. He twisted, trying to see, to make sure nothing was happening back there that would disgust Bronn, but he withdrew his finger and it was clean and normal. Jaime blinked at it, struck with a strong dissonance between how it looked and how it felt, and then gasped again as Bronn pushed back inside.

“I—Bronn, I—”

“Want me to stop?”

Jaime looked up at him. This might be their only chance. Their last chance. And they didn’t have much time. “No.”

“Stay there,” Bronn said, withdrawing his finger with another burst of feelings—unfamiliar, uncomfortable but at the same time powerfully intimate.

He turned to the sword rack behind them, rummaging, searching for something, and then found a small leather pocket attached to one of the scabbards. He flipped open the buckled lid and inside was a small amount of old, set grease for sword polish. Jaime’s heart leapt into his throat as Bronn shucked his breeches, exposing his cock—impressively large, now that it was hard—and watched with almost morbid fascination as Bronn coated himself with the old grease.

Then he reached for Jaime’s elbow and turned him to face the table. He pushed between his shoulder blades. Jaime bent forward, over the table, turning his head and letting his cheek rest on the rough wood, breathing hard, nervous. He flinched as Bronn spread his cheeks wide, yelped as he pressed a greased fingertip to his hole.

“I don’t think it’s going to fit,” Jaime said. He’d intended it to come out as a joke. Instead he sounded terrified.

Bronn didn’t reply, but he reached a hand around and grasped Jaime’s cock. Jaime sighed, but the pleasure combined with pain as Bronn sat the blunt head of his cock against Jaime’s hole and pushed, his free hand spreading him wide open. It _hurt._ It hurt with a burning, flaring pain.

“Bronn—” he gasped, but he was pumping Jaime’s cock at the same time, and that felt amazing; his body was confused by the contrast of sensations. He heard Bronn spit, adding extra lubrication as he pushed further forward, and Jaime buried his face in his arm.

“Argh,” he groaned. Sweat was breaking out all over him. It was too much, too much. He was going to split in two. He flinched away, an automatic reaction, but his hips were wedged between Bronn and the table.

"S'alright," Bronn soothed, pausing.

"Don't stop," Jaime gasped. "I want— you—"

Bronn chuckled, the sound breaking through Jaime's thoughts. “Just relax, love. Don’t fight it. Oh, fuck, you’re beautiful.” And he stroked his hands over Jaime's hips, over his shoulders, soothing, comforting, distracting.

The words washed over Jaime, loosening his muscles, and as soon as he relaxed it felt easier.

“That’s it,” Bronn praised, sliding further in. “That’s it, love. That’s it, Jaime. My Jaime.”

He must be all the way in now, Jaime thought. He felt stretched so wide he might just break apart. But he let himself relax. Bronn leaned forward, lying along Jaime’s back, his hand still pumping Jaime’s cock, and he didn’t move yet, giving Jaime time to adjust.

“Breathe,” Bronn said in his ear. Jaime did as instructed, breathing in deeply and sighing out. It started to feel less foreign, less invasive. And then Bronn started to move, sliding back and then thrusting forward, and Jaime gritted his teeth around a noise as pain flared, a burning, harsh feeling. But there was something else as well. There was something there that didn’t hurt. Something there felt good. He honed his focus in on that, thinking this might be something he would have to learn to enjoy, if they ever lived that long. But the second time Bronn slid back then forward, the pain was less, and the pleasure more. The third time, the pain was almost gone. Jaime groaned, a noise he wasn’t accustomed to hearing from his own mouth, desperate and uncontrolled, and Bronn pressed his lips to Jaime’s neck.

“Oh, Jaime…” he said, right in his ear, his voice sending shivers straight down Jaime's spine to the place where Bronn was taking him—Bronn was _owning_ him, and Jaime wanted to give it to him, to surrender. He wanted Bronn to have him.

Something started to build. It was similar to the feeling of an approaching climax as he was used to, but also different. For one thing, it was inside him, not just a general feeling in his balls. Bronn wasn’t even stroking him any more, his fingers were now digging into Jaime’s upper arms, holding him still against the table as he thrust harder into him. Each time his cock surged forward inside Jaime, it built the feeling higher.

He knew Bronn was close. His forehead was pressing on Jaime’s spine and he was breathing hard.

And then the wave broke and Jaime was overwhelmed.

It consumed him slowly, slower and harder than any climax he remembered, whiting out his vision. He strained on his tiptoes against the floor, flared his left hand and pressed against the wood, and forgot to breathe for several seconds. As it started to fade, he felt dampness on his feet, and realised he’d spent without his cock even being touched.

Bronn didn’t pull out. He remained buried inside Jaime, his full weight collapsed against Jaime’s back, his breath puffing across his shoulder. Jaime couldn’t move anyway. After a minute, Bronn scooped him up with his arms under Jaime’s chest, and, still embedded inside him, pulled him upright, holding him tightly.

“Whatever happens, we'll be together,” Bronn said in his ear, almost too deep for the words to be comprehensible. Jaime managed to give a jerky nod, but he couldn’t reply. He could barely move. Bronn held him up, his nose pressed behind Jaime’s ear, and they breathed together for another minute.

Jaime felt semi-conscious. Bronn was moving him around, touching him gently. He vaguely noticed he was now sitting up on the table as Bronn finished buttoning his jerkin and then knelt to replace his shoes.

He had been cold, but he hadn’t noticed until his clothes were back on and he was already starting to warm again. He grew gradually more aware as he sat watching Bronn hastily pull his clothes back on. When he finished stomping his boots onto his feet, he glanced up at Jaime, and smiled, stepping over to the table and between Jaime’s thighs, wrapping his arms around him and hugging him to his chest. Jaime relaxed, his head under Bronn’s chin, his face against his chest, and despite the fact that they would both likely be killed within the hour, he felt safer than he could ever remember being.

Then, they both flinched at a sudden sixth sense. Jaime looked up at Bronn. They both listened for a second longer, and then they heard it.

Wingbeats.

Bronn grasped his arm as Jaime turned to the window.

“We need to get out of here.”

“It's Drogon,” Jaime breathed, as the massive beast came into view.

Bronn tugged him off the table and back to the door. He threw it open and they started down the steep spiral stairs at a run. The sound of huge wingbeats was becoming deafening. Jaime missed a step and spent one horrible moment weightless in the air before Bronn grabbed him around the waist, shoving him forward once his feet were under him.

At the bottom of the stairs, they heard something like an explosion, and heat billowed down the tower as Bronn slammed the door shut on it.

“We need to see what's happening,” Jaime said, turning left, running towards the ramparts.

“Jaime!” Bronn called after him. Jaime turned. “Drogon is gonna take care of business,” he said over the noise. “And we need to be as far away and as deep underground as we can, until he’s done. Alright?”

Jaime nodded, and started back towards Bronn. And then the world shattered.

The wall between then exploded as something speared straight through, destroying the floor, crashing through several levels at once.

“Jaime!” Bronn yelled fiercely, desperately, across the distance, as the keep crumbled like sand under the force of the impact, and then Jaime was falling.

That was the last thing he remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. 
> 
> No, I'm jk. There’s another chapter coming ;)
> 
> But wow, this chapter fought me so bad. I hope it reads okay. Let me know what you thought!


	5. Chapter 5

Jaime was drifting. 

It sounded like the entire keep was collapsing around him. The crashing, splintering noise seemed to go on forever. He couldn’t move. He had no idea how much time had passed. He had one vivid image of Drogon, incredibly massive, sweeping overhead against the bright glare of daylight. He felt waves of heat from a nearby inferno, tried to roll his face away from it, but couldn’t.

The short bursts of awareness became less frequent. He was aware of the gaps of blackness growing longer. He saw Bronn, briefly, covered in soot, reaching for him. He saw Gilly with an armful of bandages. Then there was nothing. For a long time there was nothing. 

He returned to himself in pieces. First was the pain. 

He didn’t know if he was on fire or buried in snow. He just knew it hurt. It hurt so bad that the first time he thought he was waking up, he was immediately overwhelmed and was gone again in an instant. The second time the pain was dulled, throbbing, a fire burning beneath his awareness. Light returned as well. He couldn’t open his eyes for long. It was bright and things were moving. Or maybe he was moving. 

The third time the light wasn’t as bright, it was dulled, the same as the pain. He turned his head. He was lying down; he was in a bed. Bronn was there, across the room, slumped in a chair, his head leaning in one hand. He was dirty; his hair was mussed; his eyes were red. Jaime tried to say his name, but his voice didn’t work. Soon he was gone again.

Finally, Jaime came to properly. A strange sensation had pulled him out of the depths. As his senses slowly crept back, he realised it was taste. He recognised it; honey. He moved his mouth, tried to lick his lips, and then there was a crash. Jaime flinched at the sudden loud noise, pain springing through his muscles at the automatic movement. He managed to get his eyes open. 

Bronn was standing there, next to his bed, a spoon in one hand, the other hand open but empty. His eyes met Jaime’s, and then he dropped the spoon as well, moving forward, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning over Jaime, touching him, checking him.

“What happened?” Jaime asked. His voice came out hoarse and sandy. He ran his tongue around his mouth again, still tasting honey.

“Jaime,” Bronn breathed. He was looking at him like he couldn’t believe he was real. His hands ran over Jaime’s face, over his shoulders. “H-how d’you feel?”

Jaime frowned at that. “Hurts,” he said, though he supposed that was obvious. Bronn grabbed his left hand.

“Squeeze.”

Jaime did as instructed, then watched with confusion as Bronn pulled the blankets off him and slid down the bed. 

“Can you feel this?” Bronn asked, grabbing Jaime’s left foot.

“Yes, why?” Jaime asked, irritated. Bronn ignored him, grabbing the other foot.

“This?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Jaime,” Bronn said faintly, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t— they didn’t think—”

To Jaime’s surprise, Bronn’s voice choked and he cut off. Jaime lifted his left hand, with effort—it hurt to move  _ anything _ —and reached for him. Bronn grasped his hand again and pulled the blankets back up. Then he ran his free hand over Jaime’s cheek and leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“What happened?” Jaime repeated. “Why were you feeding me honey?”

Bronn sighed. “It’s been two weeks. They were starting to think you weren’t gonna wake up. Been feeding you whatever I could get down your throat.”

“Oh,” Jaime replied, suddenly feeling awkward. “But… you shouldn’t have worried. I woke up a few times before this. Just not for long.”

Bronn squeezed his eyes shut. “I wasn’t worried,” he said in a tight voice. Then he cleared his throat. “Drogon took out the Night King.”

“He’s gone?” Jaime breathed.

“Aye.” Bronn reached up to tug his tunic aside, showing Jaime his shoulder—his regular shoulder with no blue mark there anymore. “He’s gone. All the wights are back to being proper dead. Your plan worked.” He smiled. “Looks like winter is on the way out already, too. It hasn’t snowed since. Only thing is, Drogon took out half the castle in his attack. You fell down about three storeys into the rubble. Your legs were… we didn’t think you’d have feeling.”

“I can feel them alright,” Jaime grumbled.

Bronn gave a bark of laughter and this time didn’t hide the slight glistening in his eyes. “Thought I’d lost you again.”

Jaime just gripped his hand tightly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Jaime spent several days cycling through sleeping and waking. Bronn never left his side. He made sure he was warm when he was sleeping, and got as much broth and water down his throat as possible when he was awake. A few days later when Jaime woke up, Bronn wasn’t alone in the room with him. He was talking to someone Jaime couldn’t see as he blinked his eyes into focus and turned his head. Even the slight movement sent pain shooting down his spine.

“Bronn,” he groaned on instinct, squeezing his eyes shut, and when he managed to open them again there were two people at his side—Bronn and Tyrion.

Jaime stared at him for a moment, unsure if he was real. Tyrion smiled somewhat shyly. “Hello, brother.”

“What…” Jaime still felt like his body wasn’t quite responding to his directions as quickly as usual—he recognised the after-effects of milk of the poppy. Luckily Tyrion understood the question.

“I arrived yesterday,” he said.

“Is… is she here?”

“The Queen? Yes,” Tyrion nodded. “She’s waiting for more men to arrive, then she’s marching North.”

“North…?” Jaime muttered.

Bronn put a hand on his arm. “She’s going to clear out the North, while there’s a chance. Put roads down, a few towns. Take it back.”

“That’s a good idea,” Jaime said carefully, but was slightly concerned at the look in Bronn’s eye as he talked about the mission.

Tyrion smiled. “Well. I just wanted to check on you, but it looks like Bronn is doing an admirable job of taking care of you. I hope you’re paying him well.”

Tyrion didn’t mean anything by it—of course he didn’t—but the comment stung through Jaime and he felt Bronn flinch. He took his hand from Jaime’s arm quickly. 

Tyrion left after that; he and Bronn exchanged a few more words while Jaime lay staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what he could say to fix what had just happened, but his brain still felt so sluggish.

Bronn closed the door after Tyrion and turned back to Jaime slowly. Jaime watched him, waiting for the anger, or the reproach, but nothing came. Bronn just walked back over, hopped back on the bed, leaned over Jaime and kissed him. 

It was quick, brief, nothing more than a single press of his lips to Jaime’s, then he drew back and Jaime blinked up at him, confused.

Bronn smirked. “I dunno.  _ Are  _ you paying me enough?” 

It was a joke. Jaime stared at him, struggling to process this. “I… Bronn, if I told Tyrion… I mean, I’ll tell Tyrion, once we… er, if we… I mean, he would understand if we…”

Jaime was struggling. He didn’t want to imply that Bronn wanted to be—what? Jaime’s  _ partner?  _ It wasn’t like he planned to go around telling everyone, but he thought Tyrion, at least, would understand, if he explained it. 

But—tell him what? Whatever had happened so far, it didn’t necessarily mean anything. It wasn’t representative of how Jaime  _ felt,  _ and he finally knew, finally understood that he  _ did  _ feel, very strongly. He didn’t know for sure what Bronn felt. It wasn’t like they’d made any kind of  _ commitment _ to each other. They hadn’t even discussed what was happening here. Jaime was getting way too far ahead of himself.

Bronn was smiling at him as he struggled to not say what he wanted to say. Jaime trailed off and smiled back at him.

“Go back to sleep,” Bronn soothed, brushing a hand over Jaime’s hair. “Next time you wake up, we’ll try some solid food.”

 

Jaime improved gradually over the next several days. The mission north was all anyone was talking about—even Sam and Gilly were going—and Jaime was starting to get a sinking feeling whenever it was brought up. Bronn was evasive about it. The leaving date rushed up to him, days blurring together with all the sleeping he was doing, and then one morning Bronn came into the room dressed for travel, the sword and dagger Jaime had given him on his belt.

“You’re going,” Jaime said dully from where he sat.

Bronn closed the door behind him and crossed to Jaime’s side.

“I’m going,” he repeated, sinking down on the edge of the bed.

Jaime felt pressure in his chest and tried to breathe steadily. He fixed his gaze on his knees.  _ “Please  _ don’t go,” he said, as calmly as he could manage.

Bronn sighed. “I have to. They need the men, and… it’s more than that. The Night King was inside my head, Jaime. I have to make sure, myself, that he’s gone for good, that he’s not going to spring back up somehow next winter. I have to make sure I’m free.”

Jaime swallowed against the lump in his throat, still staring straight at the blanket. “We only just found each other,” he said.

Bronn grabbed his chin, turning his head to meet Bronn’s gaze. “And we’ve got the rest of our lives. I’m gonna go, and I’m gonna come back, and then you can have it.”

“Have what?” 

“The rest of my life,” Bronn said seriously. “It’s yours.”

And he leaned forward, kissing Jaime hard, pressing him back into the pillows. Jaime got a grip on Bronn’s leather jerkin and held on tightly, tugging him close, and when Bronn drew back, he didn’t let go.

“Don’t get killed,” Jaime said desperately.

“I’ll be fine,” Bronn said, rolling his eyes. “You get yourself better. I expect to see you running to greet me when I get back.”

“I’ll aim for walking first.”

Bronn smiled. “It won’t be long,” he reassured. “A few months at the most.”

Jaime nodded, and didn’t notice until Bronn lifted a thumb to his cheek that tears were leaking down his face. He knew he was just making it hard on both of them. He cleared his throat.

“Help me over to sit by the window. You can wave to me as you go out the gate.”

Bronn did as he said, taking most of Jaime’s weight and moving him slowly across to the chair. Jaime sunk into it and Bronn stepped back, swinging his arms awkwardly.

“Now, don’t go getting ideas in your head. I don’t  _ want  _ to leave,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Jaime replied automatically, although he was still glad to hear Bronn say it.

Bronn hesitated. “And this isn’t some kind of veiled escape. I’m coming back. I promise.”

Jaime nodded, and couldn’t get any more words out. He blinked hard, holding the tears back. Bronn leaned over to kiss him one more time—it was wet, brief, unsatisfactory—and then he left, looking anxiously back at Jaime as he went. 

After he was gone, Jaime didn’t bother holding back. He didn’t think he’d cried so hard since he was a child. He didn’t even notice the door open again, until Tyrion appeared next to him, laying a hand on his arm.

“Jaime?” he said, concerned. “What is it?”

Jaime shook his head, and took deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. Tyrion waited patiently, sliding into the chair opposite, and they both watched out the window, looking over the yard and the front gate, as the troops started marching out.

“You’re not going?” Jaime finally asked.

“No,” he said, retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket and passing it to Jaime. “Daenerys wanted someone to remain here, to receive reports. In case they need someone to gather reinforcements, or send supplies. Besides, I’d be even more useless than you, out there.”

Jaime nodded, and blew his nose. He may as well not have bothered, because a second later he saw Bronn walk across the courtyard to the gate. Gilly, Sam and little Sam headed out first, and when Bronn reached the gate, he turned, looked up and waved. Jaime raised his hand, unsure if Bronn could see him or not, and Bronn gave a casual salute before turning, shouldering his pack, and heading out of Jaime’s sight. The tears started all over again, and Jaime buried his face in his arm, feeling completely ridiculous. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m fine, I just need a moment—”

“No need to rush,” Tyrion interrupted mildly. “We have a few months of waiting around to do. Cry as long as you like. Though when you feel like it, I wouldn’t mind knowing why.”

“You don’t know already?” Jaime asked, trying for humour, though his voice was choked.

“I have a few theories,” Tyrion said slowly, steepling his fingers. “However, by the way you reacted when Bronn waved to you just now, my best guess would be heartbreak.”

Jaime looked over at Tyrion through his blurred vision, surprised he figured it out so quickly. 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Tyrion said with satisfaction.

“I’m not  _ heartbroken,”  _ Jaime said, wiping his nose again. “He’s coming back.”

“You love him,” Tyrion said, surprised. When Jaime didn’t deny it, Tyrion leaned forward, a glimmer in his eyes. “You  _ love  _ him,” he repeated, slower, his voice taking on a hint of awe. “Does he know?”

“Yes. No. I mean we’ve… I haven’t— but—”

“So you’ve fucked?”

Jaime felt his face flush with heat. Tyrion’s delighted gossip-face wasn’t helping. “I can’t see Bronn being the bottom, either,” he mused, running a hand over his jaw. 

“Tyrion,” Jaime complained, but it didn’t deter him.

“Who would have guessed. The great Jaime Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, the Kingslayer, the renowned swordsman, the champion of the north…  _ likes _ getting fucked up the arse.”

_ “Tyrion!” _ Jaime grabbed the closest thing to throw at him—a pillow—and Tyrion threw his arms up to protect his face, laughing hard. 

“Just tell me one thing, just one—is Bronn good in bed? I’d love to know.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Are you  _ sure _ the army can’t use you in the north? Perhaps as bait? Maybe you should go run after them.”

“Oh, brother, I’m only teasing you. I’m happy for you, truly—being alone doesn't suit you. It  _ is  _ funny, though. I wonder what father would say.”

“Alright, that’s it,” Jaime said, getting a grip on the chair arms to haul himself upright and dive for Tyrion. 

 

The time passed slowly. Jaime started walking—carefully—on crutches. The snow melted and every able-bodied man and woman remaining at the keep set to planting crops frantically. Jaime wasn’t one of them; he pushed himself harder than he probably should to get his muscles to rebuild, but was still very slow. He provided assistance where he could with the ongoing cleanup of the ruined wing of the keep, and otherwise spent a lot of time sitting around with Tyrion, commiserating and putting up with his teasing.

Tyrion received a message three weeks after the army left, from a scout riding in late one evening. The army had reached the Wall and were to push on the following morning. Tyrion and Jaime read the note twice each, both wishing for more details, but there was nothing to be had.

“If she was going to go to the effort of sending a scout all the way back here, she could have put something more interesting in the message,” Tyrion huffed, throwing the scrap of paper down on the table.

“Yes,” Jaime agreed dully, thinking he would have liked a note from Bronn, though he wasn’t sure what he’d expect it to say. The thought of Bronn writing him some kind of love letter made him snort, and his brother raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” Tyrion said, “I was never under any misapprehension that our Queen is a master correspondent, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

 

The more time passed, and the healthier Jaime grew, the more desperate he became for Bronn’s return. He spent more nights than he liked to admit with his cock in his hand, thinking over and over that one time they’d had together. It had been shocking and overwhelming at the time, but now Jaime couldn’t stop thinking about it. And though he’d never had the remotest interest in his own arse before, now he sometimes prefaced those sessions by running his own hand over it, remembering the feel of Bronn behind him. He even pushed his own finger inside—then two, then three—desperate for a more solid recollection of that moment. 

Summer well and truly arrived. Jaime was walking unaided. It had been three months since the army left when another scout arrived with news that they were on their way home. The man had left them when they were still several days march from the Wall on the northern side, so they didn’t expect them to arrive for another few weeks at least.

Jaime went to bed that night feeling warm and happy. He would be seeing Bronn again soon. The report said the expedition had gone well. The worst thing that had happened were a few encounters with wildlife— _ natural  _ wildlife. The Night King was gone, as far as anyone could tell. He fell asleep and was halfway through a dream about polar bears when he was pulled awake by a sound. He opened his eyes, looked toward the door, and then sat bolt upright.

The door was open, and Bronn was standing there, dropping his bag on the ground, covered in dust from the road.

Jaime just stared at him, unable to form words, as Bronn crossed the room in three strides.

His lips met Jaime’s in a rough clash, pushing him down onto his back. Bronn was still fully clothed in his boots and travel gear but he pushed the covers off Jaime and pressed against him, leather and belt buckle and sword hilt all pressing hard against Jaime’s skin, protected only by thin underclothes.

“You— how—” Jaime got out around Bronn’s kisses.

Bronn sat back on Jaime’s thighs to undo his sword belt, tossing it to the ground with a crash. “Promised myself I’d stay with them til we were within sight of the Wall, but after that—” he was on Jaime again, his rough hands cupping Jaime’s face, his tongue pressing forward into Jaime’s mouth.

Jaime groaned. He still felt not quite awake, and wasn’t completely sure this wasn’t all part of his dream. 

But it couldn’t be. Bronn was heavy on top of him, dusty and rough and hard and demanding, and Jaime found himself whimpering involuntarily within thirty seconds of Bronn’s tongue and hands reaching him.

Bronn feverishly pulled at his leather jerkin, throwing it aside, then buried his nose in the curve of Jaime’s neck and breathed in. He groaned. “You’re so clean, and soft,” he growled, reaching down to almost rip Jaime’s underclothes off. Jaime yelped, his body pliant under Bronn’s firm, rushed hands as he lifted Jaime’s knees up to his shoulders. 

“Hold here,” he instructed, and Jaime did as he was told, wrapping his arms around the backs of his knees, swallowing hard. Bronn sucked on his finger and spat on his hand and then he was stroking Jaime’s hole while he worked to get the rest of his own clothes off with his free hand.

Jaime gasped and felt his muscles melting into a relaxed puddle as Bronn teased that sensitive spot before starting to dip in, further and further as Jaime relaxed into it, soon sliding first one and then two fingers inside him. Jaime had done all this to himself plenty of times in the past months, but that feeling simply couldn’t compare to having Bronn do it instead.

Bronn slid off the bed for about the two seconds it took him to get rid of the rest of his clothes. He looked so healthy; he’d put on weight and muscle. He was tanned. His cock was even bigger than Jaime remembered and his stomach twisted with nerves and anticipation and pleasure as Bronn sat the fat, smooth head of it against Jaime’s hole, slick with spit. He spread him wide and pushed in.

It went so much easier this time than the first time. Jaime was more relaxed, and he  _ wanted _ it in there so desperately. The noise that escaped his mouth as Bronn slid his full length inside him was one he wasn’t sure he’d ever made before.

Bronn leaned forward and kissed him. “Missed you,” he said gruffly, before he pulled out and slammed back in, and Jaime’s vision just about turned white at the sensation.

“Ungh,” was all he could manage as a reply. 

Bronn chuckled and closed a hand over his cock, pumping him in time with Bronn’s thrusts. It didn’t take long—no more than thirty seconds—for them to both finish, Bronn with a groan and Jaime with a shout. 

They lay there in a tangled pool of limbs, both gasping, and then Jaime heard footsteps approaching.  _ Footsteps. _ He tried to shove Bronn off, but he groaned and wouldn’t budge, and a figure appeared in the doorway. 

It was Tyrion, with his hand clamped firmly over his eyes.

“Next time, perhaps you could remember to close the door,” he grumbled, groping blindly for the handle until he found it, and pulled the door closed with a thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [sarcasm_for_free](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasm_for_free/pseuds/sarcasm_for_free) for all the help.
> 
> This story has fought me all the way and it took like six months total, so I hope it's been worth it and you enjoyed reading it!!
> 
> If you want more Bronn/Jaime, there's a lot more on my profile! Also check the [Bronn/Jaime Tumblr blog.](https://bronnandjaime.tumblr.com/)


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